The Children of War
by ForeverFoxface
Summary: What happened to the dead Career Tributes of the 74th Hunger Games after Katniss won? The six of them, however vaguely mentioned, are still very much alive in their own world and are each expressing their views on CF, MJ and whatever comes afterwards.
1. Found

Ack, I'm sorry to everyone that's been reading that I haven't gotten the second chapter out yet. I promise it will be up soon; I'm working on typing it right now ^_^

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or any characters included in the series.**

People often say that the Careers don't fear anything.

Though the answer to that question has never been revealed, I can tell you firsthand that it's not true.

Of course, I've never been satisfied with sitting here, in my parallel world, watching the deep orange sunsets that end with a tinge of red. A pang of remembrance sears through me like an ember, and I remember that bloodlust that I commonly felt on the wasteland that the living like to call Earth, full of corrupt politicians and depressed people. Often times Cato sits down next to me as he watches me stare out into the sunset, lost in my own thoughts, and cocks his head like an innocent young dog, which is quite ironic because that's the exact opposite of what he really is. He's curious about my thoughts, which I'm usually eager to reveal to him in the best of times. The land we live in is somewhere between Heaven and Hell; the dictator of who goes where was never sure where to put our pack. We kill, yet we are innocent. To the supernatural and unearthly souls, we Careers are misguided teenagers who have been brought up with a thirst for human blood ever since birth.

Our meadow is full of soft grasses and vast plains, but no flowers or trees. This land does not feature the burdens of hunger, weight, or having us make a grunting effort to stay clean. Everyone has some sort of smell lingering about them, each of our familiars their own distinctive scent. Injury is possible here, though we've been rid of our blows and blemishes from the days that we all died. Just the other day a wide gash opened up in my thigh while I was not watching my movement. I let out no pitiful squeal of pain and no cry of defeat, though I felt the damage internally. I glanced down at my leg and gasped when I saw one of my Earthly possessions—a golden knife, engraved with an exquisite 'C', that I had smuggled in to the arena somehow. It was more of a decorative knife then; I never used it in the arena, no matter how badly I sometimes wanted to. The blade curved ever so slightly, and for quite a few hours after that, I passed my time watching the tip of the knife that I had never used bury itself in the soft earth, limping from the dull ache of my injury. That was, and still is, another one of the meadow's many "features"—injuries will heal themselves. I suppose that the creators of the meadow put that feature into place to teach us a lesson. While we had always had bandages and medicines to treat the variety of wounds that never failed to appear on my body back in District Two, here we endure that suffering. It was only after I discovered the gash in my leg that I realized how things worked back on Earth: with our technological and medicinal advancements, we were treated like babies, always having remedies for each and every ailment that came forth and exposed itself. Here in the meadow, we fend for ourselves, and occasionally for each other. I never tire when I am in Cato's presence, and we often enjoy ourselves when we talk and joke about what more we could have done and how much more skillfully we could have killed the rest of the deceased that we once laid our piercing eyes upon.

Cato and I—we can talk for hours, sometimes even days. You can sense time passing here, though it passes by very quickly and it's similar to that one-second feeling of ecstasy people experience sometimes. It's there and, just as suddenly as it comes it departs, leaving you breathless and wanting more. You find yourself reaching out for that one feeling; you yearn for it like a baby yearns for food and warmth and love. Occasionally our lips even touch, but in rapid notions. Yet I feel the gentleness radiating from us both, and that…other indescribable feeling. We kiss, but it doesn't feel 'official' like those stories you hear on television or in old books. Cato is like a sibling and a lover to me. It's the only way we can both escape those dark burdens that creep up upon us in the dark of night. Night falls, even in this meadow. Cato was never the one to come up to me then and beg to sleep next to me; I was that person who begged to be near him. And before the entire ordeal of the Games, both of us radiating large amounts of arrogance and pride, I couldn't feel his attachment to me. I was completely caught up in the Games to notice. It was only before the rock descended upon my skull as in slow motion that I felt that small spark inside me. I knew Cato would not desert me then, and when the deed was done and my assassin long gone, this monster of a boy knelt beside me and begged me to stay.

Of course, he knew that it wasn't possible. I could feel the pressure of the valley that was forcefully imprinted into my skull. He could feel it, too. He promised that he would win for me.

He didn't, and even I knew he wouldn't. And when Cato appeared in our land, the land of the in-between that housed, and still houses the supposedly proud and arrogant Career Tributes of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, I, for the first time in my life, found someone that I could truly embrace.


	2. Lost

Marvel moans in his sleep and thrashes so much that I have to slap him—hard—across the cheek in order to get him to stop. This raises a few bright red welts as a reward, and I smirk in satisfaction. But, at the same time, I feel like gnashing my teeth and pulling out my hair. This must stop. This has to stop. I feel like the mother of a baby animal, trying to teach my offspring manners and language and rules.

Just as I'm moving into a more comfortable sleeping position, he reaches out again in his sleep and his hand comes to rest on my hip. Disgusted, I deliver another vigorous slap to his face before he moans again and puts it back into his woven sleeping bag, where it belongs. Marvel is a pain. Why was I stuck with such an incompetent and childish district partner for these Games? I raise my hands in a defeated gesture towards the strange, colored sky, which was a creamy ginger hue this morning, but then changed to a bright blue-violet, and is now a wispy light blue. Looking at our skies is similar to staring at these special contraptions that people like to call 'color-changing nightlights'. I had one, in my room back home, when I was six years old and couldn't stand the darkness. I remember its diamond-hard texture, its crystalline appearance. The nightlight was just a minor thing to me back at home, where I had all I could ever need plus more, but here, every little thing is of value, and every large object is cast aside. Detail is the key for Marvel and me, and that's how I've liked it ever since I blindly made my way here from the corrupt nation that we call Panem.

Suddenly, I want to leave. I want to get away from our little campsite, away from this…this place that has changed me so much. It's like I'm looking back at my real self from the other side of a mirror. I'm banging on the glass—so hard that my fingertips swell and my skin cracks and bleeds, my nails becoming gnarled messes compared to the uniform-shaped bones they were so neatly and effortlessly filed into by my stylists. Panem-Glimmer doesn't see me, and the reason why she does not see me is because there is no Panem-Glimmer. That person is dead. I am dead. And I didn't want to accept that until now.

"_Glimmer, we always expect the best from you, as we do from your siblings as well._

_Otherwise, be prepared to meet your father's fist and my claws in punishment. Look how well your sister Doll is doing with those knives! Observe Cyclone as he sticks the spear into that poor boy on the street! They both are younger than you, yet they already have the willpower and the determination to fight. Isn't that what you are and what we trained you to be, Glimmer? A fighter? Because that is what you truly are."_

_A fighter,_ I think. _That is what I truly am…rather, was…supposed to be. _

I gather my supplies and decide to desert the subject of life before this and the Games. It's better not to dwell on the past, but to move forward. After all, I have potential, and I know what I was technically built for: killing.

But right now, I feel the rush of adrenaline shoot through me, and I know what I want to do. Marvel's asleep, and there's no distraction or anything to bother me, let alone keep me busy. So I will do what the Girl on Fire does, as much as I despise her and would love to personally close my hands around her throat.

I will hunt.

There isn't much game as far as I see right now, but there is plenty of food. Bright-colored berries dot every single bush in sight, with the exception of a couple bushes whose leaves are heavy with blue berries. Since the Games, I haven't found a bow and arrow to be much help to me at all, so I use the weapon I am most familiar with: the sword.

Its shining silver tip reminds me of my name. Glimmer. It glimmers white in the sun, a marvelous reflection of power. I raise the sword up to the sky and cry out, likely frightening most of the life away for at least a span of fifteen yards, and continue on my way through the undergrowth, slashing through brambles and branches.

It is only when I reach a dirt clearing that I realize there must be others here, too.

I was the first of the Careers to go. Now, I shun myself for being so brainless. Of course, there was the District 4 boy, but I never saw him in the sky here. I suppose he was considered innocent after he died? All I know is that it doesn't matter. _The boy was so pathetic that he didn't even get the chance to utter one word to the Career pack_, I think.

Then, there was the girl. She was most definitely a nuisance, but strong nonetheless. She died the same way I did—at Katniss' hand. I suppose I can't help but give the Girl on Fire credit for her intellect. I would never have thought of something so effective, though I likely wouldn't think about it in the first place, due to the fact that I'm too large to climb a tree.

Thinking about District 4's sad excuse for a tribute pair this year brings me to the subject of District Two. There's no doubt that Clove has killed someone, maybe a few people, since my death. But what has she been doing? Her and Cato both appeared in these skies just a while ago. But the chances of running into either of them are awfully slim. This is such vast land, with endless plains and forest that stretch for miles in each direction—similar to our Arena. Clove will like it; she is accustomed to the plains, or so she told me. We shared something that couldn't quite be called a friendship, but was some sort of connection nonetheless. All of a sudden, I feel like I need her to be here so that I can tease her about her height and how she really should spruce up her look and the intensity of her eyes with some graceful accents of makeup and heavy eyeliner. Each time I would mention this, she would roll her eyes, snatch the bottle of eyeliner that I brought as my district token (what a shame! The ring would have been wonderful), and paint patterns on her face, as well as mine, when I would let her. Clove was a brute to the others, but I discovered her more playful and childish side right when I made her acquaintance. She was always an artist at heart, swirling the dripping remains of our bloodbath victims into something beautiful, like a message or a picture. And after she was done, I would step back towards the trees and see all that gorgeous red shining in the setting sun, entrancing me. "It's beautiful," I would tell her, and she would nod gratefully and continue on her way, not skipping through the forest like I sometimes did when I was in a giddy mood, but nearly tiptoeing gracefully, with stealth. You could see it in her gait, her posture. Clove, the girl who was once a friend, is now a lost memory. Where could I possibly find her? Could she be with Cato? Only the skies know. But for now, I'll head back to camp, pretend to enjoy Marvel's company and relax, for the first time in days.


End file.
